I suck man. I don’t think I’ll ever publish. I’m too disorganized and disenfranchised. My latest work, “Blow Up A Hill” just isn’t coming together. Maybe I should aim for short stories.
I have that peculiar, artistic, “Schizophrenia wrote this” style to me. Who would write a book about blowing up a hill? It’s not very logical and possibly pathetic. Until you get into the details. Everything is a little melodramatic. So I border on humor. It’s as if data is exchanged for no obvious reasons. Why even blow up a hill at all? There are obvious reasons, which may become either tedious if I fail as an artist, or humorous and exciting if I succeed.
Characters in my head talk to me. I pick and choose from the spoils like data or loot from a loot table or dead corpse in a video game. “Just punch him” The voices chime in. But why? I ponder to myself. Thus, the Dragon Punch Data Steal was invented. I have cleared with my doctor that talking to myself is okay, but worrying that somebody else is in my mind isn’t. So long as I recognize that it’s all my own creative data, I should be okay. Nobody home, therefore.
So sirs, if you’re in my mind, stop whatever attack you’re doing, and let me go. I might not ever call the cops or authorities as a self-professed neutral person (“neither good nor evil”), but I might ever be horribly opposed to remote torture. That’s just paranoia. And nobody is in my mind. I am therefore ill.
So let me write, sleep, and think on these events. And graduate part-time with my BA in Literature several years from now. I don’t think I’ll ever win a prize but my data is theorizing whilst I study already, making me categorically “an unusual”; and “something of a snowflake”.
Part of my collection. “Militant Stories For Ignorant Children (Intended for Adults)”.